Between the Beginning and the End
by tadri33
Summary: All his life, he had expected to pass on to a specific world where he would be reunited with his family and elders. But, upon his death, Boromir is greeted with a new and entirely different kind of life. Boromir/OC.
1. The Afterlife

Between the Beginning and the End

By: Tadri33

Chapter One: The Afterlife

Disclaimer: I don't own anything from LOTR. I just write because it makes me happy.

* * *

Boromir shrank from his existence, the pain from his multiple arrow wounds diminishing as a great grey veil clouded his vision. Aragorn was clutching his hand, but the feeling grew faint as he let out his last breath.

He was ready to slip into the great beyond, uncertain of what would be there. He hoped his kinsmen would forgive his unfavorable behavior towards Frodo, and that the darkness of his greed and the Ring had betrayed him. He thought of his mother being there to welcome him, the thought giving him some peace.

His body felt at ease, as if he was lying upon something comfortable.

_How serene_, he thought, _to be unburdened and to be greeted with such comfort_.

He felt weightless, and he thought lovingly of his brother and father, hoping that Faramir would prove to serve Gondor well in the coming darkness. And, that his father would treat Faramir better now that he was his only living son and heir.

_Not that it would matter_, he considered, for surly Aragorn would rise to his lineage.

_Nothing really concerns me_, he thought after a short spell.

He relished in the weariness that had left his body, and how he seemed to have taken hold of his true self. Since the moment he had entered Rivendell, and joined the Fellowship, he had been a man of focus and torment. He knew now that the Ring had latched on to him because he was weak, and his desire to protect Gondor was used against him by the Lord of Mordor to try and manipulate him. Guilt and remorse washed over him as Frodo came to his mind. How could he have been so blind to the pain that Frodo carries in his heart? The burden that he is weighted with is incredible, and Boromir felt ashamed for betraying his trust. He lay still for what felt like many hours, though he was unsure of how, or if, time passed in this new realm. Where was he? He had surely passed on.

He closed his eyes and listened intently. There was a strange sound coming from nearby – a type of movement he was unfamiliar with. He focused on it, but found his mind still very much clouded. He could feel his limbs at last, and moved his large, calloused hands against whatever his body was resting upon. It was indeed soft, and quite comfortable, and ended abruptly at his side so that if he were to roll in that direction he would most certainly fall off. On his other side, however, he could feel pillows, both large and small.

Considering how curious it all was, he couldn't do much else as the space that he occupied was pitch black. The noise continued, intermittently, the soft _wooshing_ of something passing his location. There was another noise he heard – one that he recognized. Someone was snoring.

"Hello?" he called out, uncertain if his voice would come to him. "Is someone there?"

The snoring continued uninterrupted, and though he was concerned he felt sleep pulling him into its gentle embrace. He thought briefly about the last time he rested on anything this comfortable, and felt his body succumbing to it.

_How curious_, he thought idly, _to be tired after dying_. He closed his heavy eyes and drifted to sleep.

* * *

The pillow was vibrating.

She blinked furiously, hand groping for her cell phone, finger pressing at the screen to make the vibrating stop.

Six AM always came too soon for Bridget, and though she considered herself to be a person who liked being awake, generally, waking up at six in the morning was bound to make anyone thirst for sleep.

She rolled over on to her back and stared at the ceiling for a few moments as she considered her day. As a young lawyer in Boston, there seemed to be endless ways for her to plan her day. Regardless of that plan, the days always found a way to go however they pleased, completely disregarding Bridget's plans or wished to leave the office by six.

Sighing softly, she sat up, and placed her phone on her nightstand. Taking a small case from the drawer, she reached into her mouth and pulled out her top and bottom retainers. She glanced at them briefly before popping them into the box and reminding herself to put them in Alka-Seltzer when she got home.

Burying her fingers in her short hair, she began mindlessly scratching as she examined her bedroom. Slowly, she pulled her frame from the bed as she headed to her closet, where she pulled the towel she had used yesterday from its drying place, grabbed her phone and opened her door.

Sunlight was pouring through her kitchen windows, and she mustered a small smile at the beauty. She loved sunshine, and loved when the day promised it. She headed up the hall to her bathroom, entering the passcode into her phone to select a song to start her shower with.

Passing her living room and entering the bathroom, Bridget placed her phone down on the counter and flung her towel over the shower curtain rod as a song by The Script started filling the room. She turned on the sink faucet to brush her teeth when she furrowed her brow, and turned back into the hallway. She walked back a few steps, and looked into her living room.

There, lying on her couch fast asleep, was a man.

He was dressed in a strange outfit, with boots and metal studs on leather – he looked like something out of King Richard's Faire. And there, tied at his waist, was a sword.

Bridget let out a scream.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?!" she cried, running to the kitchen and grabbing the largest knife out of the set she kept on the counter. When she returned the man was upright and standing, his palms up in defense and complete shock.

"My name is Boromir, son of Denethor, of Gondor," he said rapidly, his face white with terror. "I mean you no harm."

"How did you get in here?!" Bridget demanded, eyes wide with fury.

"I – I passed through the darkness, my lady. I have entered this realm from the mortal world," she stammered.

"What the hell are you talking about?" she asked, still pointing the knife at him.

"Please, my lady, I mean you no harm. I am just as surprised as you," he said. His grey eyes searched her face, and though fear raged through Bridget's stomach she felt disarmed by him for a moment.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Bridget asked, the heat in her voice failing for a moment. "Did Mitch put you up to this? What are you wearing? Are you supposed to be an actor or something?" The questions raced through her mind.

"I assure you," he said, not taking his eyes from her, "that I do not know what you are referring to." Suddenly, her front door, which she could see from where she stood, was flung open, keys jingling as they knocked against the door.

"Bridget?! Where are you?" echoed a familiar voice. Bridget tensed some, rounding on the unsuspecting boy coming through the door.

"Mitchell Hadley, you explain this to me immediately!" she cried. Mitch, a young man with dark black hair darted forward after he removed his keys and closed the door. She watched her nephew darted forward, a dark expression in his eyes.

"I heard you scream from upstairs," he said, the sound of concern unmistakable in his voice. "What is going on? Why do you have that knife?" He looked into the living room to see the man who Bridget was protecting herself against, and was baffled. Mitch took in the man's appearance, confused by everything from his long hair, to the furs and leather and sword at his side. Bridget had turned back to the man as well, and the three stood in silence, sizing each other up.

"Who is he?" Bridget asked. Mitch looked at her.

"I don't know!" he said. "You think I arranged this?" Bridget looked at him, confused.

"Didn't you?" she asked. He turned towards her, shaking his head.

"Why would I?" In the moment that the two had given him, Boromir reached forward and snatched the knife from Bridget's hand. She looked back at him instantly, and Mitch lunged forward. Boromir held his hands up, slowly lowering the knife on to the small table that separated him and the others.

"Now," Boromir began, stretching out his hand towards the man that had just arrived, "I am Boromir, son of Denethor. You are Mitchell Hadley?"

"I'm not shaking hands with you! What are you doing here?" Mitch demanded, standing a little in front of Bridget.

"I awoke here. I passed into the beyond and found myself here this morn when your lady screamed," Boromir explained, rising back to his full height. Bridget narrowed her eyes at him.

"You just woke up here?" she asked, seething with anger. Boromir met her eyes, and she could see honesty in his expression.

"Yes, Lady Bridget. What a peculiar name," he said as the syllables formed in his mouth. He watched as her expression darkened.

"And what kind of name is Boromir?" she shot back, not taking to his words kindly. Mitch smirked.

"Your parents a little obsessed with Lord of the Rings when they had you?" he asked, looking towards Bridget. She thought for a moment, and then realized why his name sounded familiar.

"That's how I know that name," she said.

"I do not understand, what is this 'Lord of the Rings'?" he asked.

"You don't know what Lord of the Rings is, but you're named after one of the characters in the story?" Mitch asked, not bothering to hide his disbelief.

"My Lord, I am named after no one, and especially not after any figures in a story. The son of the Steward of Gondor would never be named after anything so trivial," Boromir stated, clearly offended by the young man's assertion. Both Bridget and Mitch stared at him.

"I'm going to call the cops," Bridget announced, turning. Boromir made some movement to follow her, but she shot back and pointed. He froze at the sight of her index finger and her quick reaction. "You sit, and stay right there."

"What madness is this? Where am I?" Boromir demanded, anger flashing over his face. "I may be dead but no one speaks to me as if I am a dog!"

"Dead?" Mitch asked him, astounded. Boromir looked him up and down.

"I was killed in battle by Uruk, defending my friends in their quest to destroy the one Ring," said Boromir, as if it was common knowledge. "My flesh seems to be healed, but I took many an arrow through my chest. I died in the hills of Amon Hen."

"Holy shit," Mitch said after a long silence fell between the three. "You think you're for real?" Boromir stared quizzically at him, not understanding his expression.

"The two of you speak in the strangest of manners," he said, his hands going to his face.

"You're dead?" Bridget asked, as the man collapsed back on to her couch. He met her eyes when he pulled away his hands, and nodded at her curtly.

"This is the after world, is it not?" he asked. Bridget looked to Mitch, and he looked back at her. Suddenly, she was very afraid. A man was sitting in her house who thought he was a fictional character. A dead fictional character, at that. She swallowed hard, and gestured towards the kitchen with her eyes at Mitch. She had promised to take care of him, and he now looked as afraid as she was.

"Um," Bridget said, thinking only about getting to her phone and calling the police, "excuse me." Bridget ran to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. The water was still running at the sink, and she felt panic boiling over her. What the hell was happening? She turned the faucet handle so the water turned icy, and scooped some into her hands. Splashing it over her face, she gasped as it stunned her skin and sent a chill down over her body.

Mitch watched the bathroom door. Hearing the water still running, he knew he had little time. He looked back at Boromir, pity coming over him. He wasn't sure why he felt bad for this man that had shown up in his aunt's apartment, but he knew he had little time if he was going to do anything about it.

He knew the cops would admit him. Living in the psych ward of a hospital was no way to go, especially if this man believed he was the dead son of a Steward of a realm that didn't actually exist. Or, worse, he would be convicted of an armed breaking and entering and be thrown in jail. Which, if this guy was a crazy as he seemed, he wouldn't put up with.

"We need to move," Mitch said, his voice lowered so his Aunt Bridget wouldn't hear him. "Come with me." Boromir sensed his urgency and followed him to the door.

"I knew there was something not right about all of this, Master Mitchell," Boromir said, treading quietly. Mitch looked at him as they reached the door, trying to turn the locks as quietly as he could.

"Look, if she calls the cops they'll take you and put you in the loony bin," he spoke quickly, fishing his keys from his pocket and pulling the one for his own door from the myriad of metal objects. "Go up the stairs here, my apartment is the one on the right, directly above this one. Use this key to open the top lock, that's all you have to do. Wait for me there." Boromir nodded his thanks, and quickly dashed up the stairs. Mitch closed the door loudly behind him, not bothering to question his actions.

"Bridget!" he called as he walked up the hall to the bathroom, knocking on the door. "Aunt Bridge, it's okay. I got him to leave." The door swung open suddenly, Bridget looking at him.

"What do you mean? Mitch! He should be going to jail!" Mitch stepped back, his dark eyes looking down at her.

"I'm sorry, I felt bad for him," he said. He knew she wouldn't stay mad at him, and while he felt some remorse for manipulating her affection for him, he knew it was for the right reasons. "He's clearly got to go sort it all out, so I told him that if he left we wouldn't call the cops." She glared at him for a few moments, her desire to serve justice being abated as she thought about what would happen to the man who called himself Boromir if the police did arrest him. Slowly, her expression changed and she sighed.

"Get out of here," she said. "I'm going to be so late for work."

* * *

She had examined her front door for any signs of forced entry and found none. How the man called Boromir had gotten into her apartment was still a mystery, but all thoughts of him faded from her mind as she rode the T to her office. As an attorney in the District Attorney's office, she saw a lot of ugly things every day. As her calculating mind considered what had happened, she realized that everything that transpired in her apartment could have gone a lot worse. What had disturbed her most was the intensity in which he believed what he was saying. To have delusions was one thing, but to be as adamant enough to dress and talk like the person he believed to be was truly frightening for Bridget.

There was nothing she could do about it now, anyway. Whoever he was, she hoped he was long gone and that she would never see him again.

For Mitch, the day had progressed much differently. Upon entering his apartment, which he found unlocked, he was conflicted. He believed that the man calling himself Boromir wouldn't do him any harm, and that he was genuinely confused. Mitch was concerned with the man's mental stability, but he decided to take his chances.

"All right," Mitch called out when he closed and locked the door behind him, "rule number one. You have to lock the door if you come in and out of here, got it?" The layout of his apartment was identical to the one below, though his furnishing were shabbier and the place not as tidy. He tried to keep up with it, but didn't usually care enough to get into the nitty-gritty of it. He took out the trash, made his bed and did his laundry – that was enough for him.

"Your quarters are not as nice as the ones I just left," Boromir stated, looking at Mitch as he came into his line of sight.

"Yeah, well Bridget has a job and I'm a poor college student," Mitch commented, walking over to the oversized arm chair in the corner of the room. He and Boromir studied each other for a long while.

"That woman is haughty and rude," Boromir said, feeling comfortable with Mitch. He had bothered to look after him.

"Hey!" Mitch said, standing. "You don't get to talk about my aunt that way. _You're_ the one that broke into her apartment."

"She is your kin?" Boromir asked, a pang of guilt in his stomach. "I beg your pardon, I did not know."

"Yeah, you don't know anything about either of us. So before you go accusing her of things that she isn't you'd better get your facts straight," Mitch said. He settled himself back into the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

"She cannot be much older than you, Master Mitchell," Boromir said, remembering her appearance.

"Call me Mitch. She's not; she's only nine years older than me."

"And you are how many summers?" he asked the boy.

"I'm 19," Mitch replied. Boromir looked away from him as he considered his age, and supposedly Bridget. After a long pause, Mitch decided it was time to get some answers. "How'd you do it?"

"Do what, young Mitch?" Boromir rested his arms on his legs, leaning forward.

"How did you get into Bridget's apartment?" Boromir sighed at his question.

"You do not believe that I have passed to this world from that of Middle Earth?" Mitch shook his head.

"That's impossible, Boromir," Mitch said. Boromir felt anger rise in his chest, but tried to keep his tone even.

"Why?" he asked.

"'Cause Middle Earth isn't a real place," Mitch responded. He got up from his chair, and walked over to the book cases that lined one portion of the wall. "Where you're from is an imaginary land, created by J.R.R Tolkien in a series of books. You are a figure in those books."

His fingers scanned the shelves, tracing over the bindings in search of the copied of the trilogy his owned. He wasn't sure if this was the right thing to be doing, having no experience with people who were of Boromir's frame of mind, but he didn't know what else to do. He paused when he found his copy of the Fellowship, thinking about this.

"Here," he said, quietly. Turning back to Boromir, he held out the copy of the book. Boromir reached forward, and took the paperback from Mitch. His grey eyes scanned the cover, running his hand over the picture that was there. It was a picture of Rivendell, a place he had been months before his passing. It was there that his fate had been sealed, and joined to his comrades. He sighed as examined it, his eyes flitting to the letters.

"Your runes are similar to those of the common language," Boromir said, uncertain of how to feel about all of this.

"Yeah, Tolkien spoke English," Mitch commented, watching Boromir warily. Suddenly, Boromir began to laugh.

"You would have me believe that I am but some imagined being?" he asked pointedly. Mitch raised his eyebrows. He sighed, and took the book back.

"Ask me anything about your adventure, even the things you don't know anything about, and I'll tell you what happens," Mitch said. Boromir leant back into the couch, smirking.

"Where did we leave from?"

"Rivendell," Mitch answered quickly. "Come now, Boromir, something a little harder."

"Who was I defending in the hills of Amon Hen?" he asked.

"Merry and Pippin, or Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, both Hobbits, and family to Frodo Baggins, the Ring Bearer," Mitch recited. He had read the books and seen the films a dozen times. He couldn't forget any of the details of one of his favorite works.

"And what became of them?" Boromir asked, a hint of sadness in his voice.

"They were taken by the orcs when you fell," Mitch said, "but they live and are safe in the end." Boromir looked up at him, a dark expression crossing his face.

"Who are you and your aunt? What witchcraft is this?!" Boromir asked, clearly irritated. Mitch stood up, backing out of the room.

"Whoa, man," Mitch said. "Relax. I'm trying to figure out why you believe you're some fictional character!"

"I am not a character! I died fighting orcs, defending my friends!" he shouted, rising from his seat also. Mitch gulped, taking in Boromir's sheer size. Mitch was tall, but looked inconsiderable in comparison to the hulk of this man. Gritting his teeth, he took another stab at reason.

"Okay, you say you passed from one life to the next, right?!" Boromir was nearing him, and Mitch was backing into the wall.

"Yes, that is what happened."

"So, you're in a new world now. And I'm sorry it's not the one you expected, but this is my world. And what I say is how it is. Here, you are part of a great and wonderful story loved by people all over from all different walks of life." Mitch looked expectantly at him, apprehension still clouding over him as Boromir stopped.

"How do I know you speak the truth?"

"I'm telling you, the world you are in right now is different from anything you were expecting. Come here," Mitch said, walking towards his kitchen. Boromir followed, and when he crossed to the window that Mitch was at, he looked out.

Large, colorful things passed on a great path below them. People of all sizes and shaped and colors walked on stone alongside the rushing objects. There were trees growing in the paths, but there was little green elsewhere. Shops and signs filled his vision, and as he looked to his right, buildings that rose to great heights stunned him.

"Where am I?" he breathed, unable to comprehend what was before him.

"You're in Boston," Mitch replied. He had hoped that showing him reason would snap him out of whatever state of mind Boromir was in. But, the astonishment on the man's face told him that there was something amiss here.

Boromir turned his eyes to Mitch, and Mitch was greeted with fear and uncertainty.

"I do not know this land," Boromir said quietly. He took a shaky step back from the window, and looked around the room he was in. There was a table and chairs, and strange devices all around him. "Where have the gods sent me?"

* * *

_Thanks for reading. _


	2. Through the Open Window

Chapter Two: Through the Open Window

* * *

Mitch made Boromir something to eat while the man bathed. Explaining the shower was a curious process, but the man was sorely in need of some comfort. Mitch had lain out a towel for him, and some of his larger clothes. He wasn't sure what would and wouldn't fit him, but Mitch couldn't let me walk around in his heavy, horribly medieval looking clothing.

Boromir let the water wash down over his face and body, not bothering his mind with the contraption for the moment. He had watched as the layers of dirt and sweat left his body, flowing through the metallic and shiny slotted hole in the bottom of the tub. Boromir had used the things Mitch directed to, one for his hair, the bar of soap for his body. That, at least, was something he recognized. He contemplated on what Mitch had been telling him. His mind was warped by the things he had seen outside the window, and knew that Mitch couldn't be fooling him. Everything about this world seemed so different – there were things that resembled what he knew, but they had been distorted and changed by this race of men.

Reaching forward and turning the dials until the water stopped running he then slid back the curtain enclosing him in the bath. Grabbing the towel Mitch had left out for him, he examined the pile of clothes on the lid of what Mitch had called the toilet. Shaking his head, he slowly wiped the water from his skin. As he stepped out, he caught sight of himself in the foggy mirror. Wiping away so he could see himself, he was only slightly startled to see three new scars on his chest from where he had been struck by the orc arrows. His mind drifted to his friends on their quest. The quest that had cost him his life, but was only fantasy to the people in his new world. A sadness crept into his heart, trying to comprehend why the gods had brought him here. Staring at himself, he recognized the clarity in his eyes that hadn't been there for a long time, but also his newfound sadness.

When he exited the bathroom, he walked to the kitchen.

"Mitch," he said softly, noticing the boy piling food on to his plate. "Where shall I place my old clothes?" Mitch stretched out his hands, taking them from him.

"Here, Boromir," Mitch said, "eat some food." Boromir walked to the table, and sat. He smiled a little.

"This is quite the meal," he said to himself, eagerly picking up his fork and spearing the eggs. Mitch returned, sitting down opposite of Boromir.

"Is it all right?" Mitch asked. Boromir nodded enthusiastically.

"I have not had such a meal in a long time. The elfish food did not suit me well," he said with a smile. Mitch gave him a smile, but it didn't seem sincere. "So, tell me, does Frodo destroy the Ring?"

"Yeah," Mitch answered. "And you're remembered fondly by all." Boromir met the young man's brown eyes, furrowing his brow.

"Lady Bridget-" Boromir started.

"About the titles, no one really does that. Unless they're royalty, but we don't have royalty in America so just call people by their first names," Mitch explained. Boromir nodded, and then continued.

"Bridget, where is she?"

"She's at work," Mitch responded, taking a sip of orange juice from his glass. Boromir had not touched his drink, and eyed it a little before deciding to follow suit. Lifting it to his mouth he let the yellow-orange liquid pass to his lips. He was pleasantly surprised by the taste.

"This is excellent," he said, before lifting the glass again and taking several gulps. Mitch maintained his wary expression.

"It's my favorite."

"What work does Bridget do?" Boromir asked as he took the last few bites of his breakfast.

"She works for the District Attorney," Mitch replied, rising and taking Boromir's empty plate. He placed it in the sink, intending to get to it later. He turned and faced Boromir again, watching as the man wiped his face with his napkin. The shirt that he had given him was taught across his chest, clearly a size too small. Fortunately, the sweatpants fit him comfortably, though they could be a little longer. Boromir shook his head.

"I do not understand what that means." Mitch sized him up, staring at his face. He could recognize that Boromir was having trouble accepting what Mitch was telling him, and that the man had become sad since he had shown him what was outside.

"You really don't have any idea where you are, do you?" Mitch asked. Boromir shook his head again.

"I told you, Mitch. I awoke in your aunt's apartment after dying. Do not ask me again, it pains me to think that my gods have abandoned me in this strange place as punishment for my weaknesses," Boromir answered. He looked away from Mitch, visibly upset. Mitch buried his face in his hands for a second.

"I can't believe I'm beginning to think this is real," he said, and then left the kitchen to get his laptop. He returned, slouching into the chair across from Boromir and opened the device. He opened a page for the internet, wanting to run a search.

He paused, at a total loss as to what he would even find.

Then, he could feel the body of the Gondorian very near him. He saw the man's face come into his peripheral vision, staring in amazement at Mitch's laptop.

"What is this?" Boromir breathed, transfixed.

"It's a computer," Mitch replied. He scooted over so the man could look closer. "It's really amazing, actually, when you think about it. It started as a machine to help people perform complicated mathematic equations. But, now it's developed into something much more complex and detailed than that."

Boromir reached forward to touch the lit screen, wondering at the images before him. Mitch gave him a few moments, but then began dragging his fingers over a square, and new images popped up. Boromir started, shocked and amazed all at the same time. A soft tapping sound began as Mitch's fingers darted over the other squares on the part resting on the table. Symbols that were similar to the common language and that had been on the cover of the book Mitch had shown him were appearing in an outline on the screen.

"How are you doing that?" he murmured, mystified. Mitch chuckled.

"That's how it works," Mitch replied. "This entire machine is based on numbers and mathematics. Every button I press here," he said, gesturing to the many tiles, "is a specific set of numbers that means this letter." He pointed at the letter 't' in the box. "The people who create and work with computers and their functions, programmers, call that code."

Boromir met Mitch's eyes, and he realized that his explanation was nearly lost on the man. Mitch shrugged, knowing that while most people used computers, they didn't understand any more about them than Boromir did. In fact, as he thought on it, the majority of the people in the world were too poor to even seen a computer. He didn't linger on the thought. He pressed enter, and the search engine returned thousands of results in a matter of a second.

He had searched "time travel proof."

It was the closest thing he could think of.

* * *

Bridget turned the key in her door, and sighed in relief. Her Friday had been long, and the T ride had seemed even longer. It was spring in Boston, which meant that it was either raining or about to rain. Tossing her umbrella against the wall near the door, she took two steps and then slipped out of her black rubber boots. Slipping off her jacket, she hung it on the peg on the wall, and placed her pocketbook on the red bench along the wall. She sighed, and walked into her bedroom, where she began to change.

Her mind was barely troubled by what she would make for dinner, when it crossed her mind that she hadn't seen Mitch in nearly a week. She had heard him walking about upstairs in the morning when she left, and had passed him twice on the stairs, but he had seemed to be in a big rush. She shrugged, reminding herself that it was not entirely unusual for her nephew to appear and disappear for days at a time. Sometimes, that's just how their schedules worked.

Pulling a white cotton t-shirt over her neck that she had long since cut the collar off, and tying the drawstring on her black sweatpants, Bridget sighed and looked at herself in her mirror.

She was of average height and curvy, a body type that she had learned to love over the years. She had found that, as she grew older, not loving herself was exhausting. Her dyed blonde hair was cropped short, barely passing her ears. She had cut it a while ago, but wasn't sure if she was going to cut it again. Her most striking feature was her eyes: one blue and one brown. As she examined herself, she slowly relived her day, covering the mistakes that she had made through its course.

Working in a fast paced and highly volatile office like the Suffolk County District Attorney's office had its benefits. She enjoyed the challenge of her work, and felt that while many of her cases were similar, no two were ever exactly the same. Bridget possessed a desire for correcting wrongs, and nothing moved her more than injustice. She was young to be working in the DA's office, but her professors at Harvard had wanted nothing less for her.

Many people rolled their eyes at her when she discussed where she obtained her JD. _Of course you went to Harvard_, they'd say, as if it was some overly-common and trite experience. The truth was that Bridget had worked her ass off to get into that school, and had worked even harder to become the assistant editor of the law review and to log the most pro-bono hours in her graduating class. Bridget had set those goals for herself and then blew them out of the water. Now, she had a salary and a budget to help her nephew get a college education and have a place to live – two things he wasn't going to get without her.

Mitch crossed her mind again. What had he been up to? When was the last she had heard from him? Reaching for her phone from her jacket pocket, she checked her texts from him.

"Tuesday?" she said to herself.

_What are you up to?_ she typed, pressing send. She slid her feet into the flip flops that she wore around the house and headed down the hall to her kitchen. She placed the phone on her table, and turned on some music. John Mayer began crooning from her device, and she headed to the refrigerator to get the chicken she had pulled out that morning.

Two songs later, her chicken was in the oven and Bridget was peeling a few potatoes for herself. Her phone buzzed, and she looked down at it.

_Not much, just homework._ She smirked. Taking a moment, she walked to the first of the two windows in her kitchen and opened it, a warm breeze caressing her skin. The window overlooked the street, and the fire escape made for the perfect place to read on the hot summer nights. She turned back and pulled a bottle of hard cider from the six pack in her fridge. Twisting the cap off and opening to her lips, she picked up her phone again.

_On a Friday? Yeah, right._ Tapping send, she turned to throw the peels into the trash.

Above her, seated on the couch, Mitch read the text message from his aunt with Boromir looking over his shoulder.

"So, you just tap these tiny letters?" Boromir asked, squinting at the phone's screen.

"Yeah, it's just like the computer, only smaller and all touch screen. No physical buttons," Mitch said. Minding Boromir had been nearly a full time job. Mitch felt bad, keeping him locked up in his apartment all day, especially when he left to go to class. Initially, Boromir didn't seem to mind, as he had all kinds of things to investigate, and Mitch left him in front of the television for two whole days. But, Mitch could see now that he was becoming restless.

"Is she not right downstairs?" Boromir asked. Mitch smiled.

"Yeah, she is."

"So why not go down to her and speak?"

"Because this is easier," Mitch replied. "And, frankly, I don't want to see her right now."

"Why?" Boromir asked, Mitch's response surprising him.

"'Cause I don't like lying to her." Boromir knit his brow together, moving away from Mitch.

"Why are you being dishonest with her?" Mitch set the phone aside, not responding to her yet. He looked at Boromir, searching for the best way to explain this to him.

"How am I supposed to explain you to her?" Mitch asked. Boromir laughed.

"What is there to explain? She knows who I am," he replied. As if it was that easy. Mitch opened his mouth to reply when his phone's text alert went off.

_Have you got a girl up there?!_

* * *

Bridget was just pulling the chicken out of the oven when her phone vibrated again, interrupting Ke$ha as she whistled.

_No_.

She pursed her lips, and looked up at her ceiling.

_I made cinnamon honey chicken with mashed potatoes. Come have some_

She strained the potatoes, the steam from the boiling water and now soft potatoes billowing up into her face. Tipping them back into the pan so she could mash them, she caught a few strays as they headed for the sink. Suddenly, there was a tap at her window.

"Knock, knock!" Mitch said from the fire escape, and Bridget smiled as she placed the now empty colander into the sink.

"Come on in, stranger! There's some wine and cider in the fridge if you're interested. I just need to mash these and then we can –"

Bridget stood, frozen on the spot, by the sink. She had turned to look at Mitch, but instead was greeted with two faces. One of them, she had wanted to forget.

Boromir smiled at her, though somewhat awkwardly.

"Mitch," she breathed, turning now fully to face them.

"Bridge," Mitch started, walking towards her, "let me explain. There are a lot of things I have been working on over the last few days and I think you need to hear me out before you get pissed."

She heard him talking, but her eyes couldn't move from Boromir. He was staring back at her, as if confounded by some part of her. He was no longer in the strange clothes he had been in, and had clearly bathed for his skin was clear as opposed to dingy with dust and dirt. Mitch grabbed her hand, and it seemed to snap her out of the trance she was in.

"What?" she asked, remembering what was going on.

"I think you need to sit," Mitch replied, leading her towards the table. Boromir sprang into action, and pulled the chair away from the table for her.

"You told me you got him to leave," Bridget said, beginning to shake. Whether it was with fear or anger, she didn't know, but she couldn't seem to let go of Mitch's hand.

"I did! Well, I got him to leave your apartment and go to mine," Mitch replied. Bridget opened her mouth to protest, but Mitch stopped her. "No! Listen to me. I think that there is something real happening here. I have been working with and observing Boromir all week, and everything he has been telling me, and all of his reactions indicate that he is telling the truth."

"Oh, please," she said, doubt crossing over her face.

"No! I'm not done yet. I know how this sounds – some guy saying he is from a place we don't understand, but I think that he is for real. I explain everything to him that he doesn't understand, and he is actually mesmerized by things that you and I have in our everyday lives. Like my computer! And the shower! And the toothbrush I bought him!"

"You bought him a toothbrush?" she asked, the detail seeming so minor to Mitch at the time.

"Yeah," he said.

"Mitch, he isn't some stray animal you can keep and feed! He is a man! A man who thinks that he belongs to a place that _isn't real_!" Bridget said, exasperation on her face.

"I beg your pardon," Boromir interrupted, his mouth set in a line of disapproval. "Where I am from is indeed very real. And though it may not be known to you as any specific location on a map of your world, I assure you that the home I lived in, the parents that raised me and the battles I have fought are just as real as yours."

Bridget was silenced for a few moments, surprised by his lecture. She recovered quickly, though still holding his gaze.

"I'm sure where you are from is very real," she retorted. "What I am concerned about is the fact that you have abandoned reality to live in a fantasy."

"Bridget, that isn't fair," Mitch said. She looked back at him.

"You can't be serious, Mitch," she said, bewildered that he was even suggesting any of this could be real.

"Bridget, you've read the books. You've seen the films. Isn't he exactly what you've pictured? Isn't he the epitome of Boromir?" Mitch challenged. Bridget rolled her eyes.

"Of course it is," she said. "He believes he's him! Why wouldn't he look like him?"

"It's more than just looks, Bridge! Everything about him! The way he talks, the way he carries himself – he is a man that has had some serious training and education in the way he is supposed to behave and in his skills," Mitch said, his eyes pleading with his aunt.

"So, what? He just landed in my living room?"

"Yes!" both men cried to her. She looked from one to the other, shaking her head. Standing, she walked over to the sink where she had left the potatoes and grabbed the mashed from the drawer beside her. Opening the stick of butter, she used a knife to cut several tabs, and began mashing it together. She was enraged that Mitch would take a man into his apartment like this. She was astounded that, somehow, this "Boromir" had made her nephew believe that he was the man he was pretending to be.

"How can I prove to you I am who I say?" Boromir asked her, his voice quiet. It was filled with some emotion that Bridget hadn't seen in a man in a long time. There was a deep confusion there, muddled with abandonment. She turned to him when she heard him speak, his voice quelling the rage in her throat. His eyes met hers, and she sighed.

"I don't know," she replied. "I don't know how someone can just be one place when they weren't there before. I don't know how anyone can trust someone when they say they are from a book."

"I do not understand it myself, my lady," he replied. "All my life I have grown believing that, when I die, I would go one place. And to wake in a world that I could have never even imagined, with not a soul I recognize, has been challenging. I feel as if I am being punished by my gods for the darkness I let cloud my mind." He looked away from her, unable to meet her gaze as he finished.

Bridget felt her pride diminish. Something inside her was telling her to trust this man, and that even if he wasn't a character from a book, he was a man in need of people who would look after him. She looked at Mitch, and he begged her with his eyes. Turning away, head and heart telling her two different things, Bridget sighed.

"I doubt my nephew has cooked you any decent food," she said, picking up the masher again and continuing her work.

"Hey now," Mitch said, "I made you breakfast, didn't I?"

"Yes, he did cook me a fine breakfast," Boromir answered. Bridget noted the lighter tone to his voice, and she let a small smile come over her mouth.

"Get the plates, you doofs," she said. "Boromir, there's cider and wine in the fridge if you'd like any." She looked over her shoulder at him, and their eyes met again. This time, he smiled.

"I will have a glass of wine," he said. Bridget opened her cupboard, and retrieved him a glass. Holding it out to him, he took it from her.

"Help yourself," she said.


End file.
